Flash of the Blade
by The Guest Calypso
Summary: A young mouse boy is forced to grow up early, when his home is burned to the ground with his parents inside. Living only for revenge, Pierce searches for answers to who took his family and his childhood from him. For Pierce, death is an inevitability; because he will die as he lived, in the flash of a blade!


-Flash of the Blade-

A Short Story written by The Guest Calypso, based off the song 'Flash of the Blade' by Iron Maiden.

_Disclaimer: The Story, with characters, plots and locations all belong to the writer and should __not__ be used without explicit consent from said writer. All characters are fictional beings that do not reflect any real life creations of other authors or artists; any likeness to other author or artists' characters is purely coincidence._

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Chapter 1: _A young boy and his Dragons._

The sky was ablaze with the oranges and golden yellows of a setting sun, preparing to set upon another day. As it slowly descended behind the gently ascending and descending mountain ranges far in the distance, it cast its fading light onto a small patch of land; a simple precise square of neat fields of corn and wheat in a sea of forest, surrounded a small wood cabin in the epicenter of corn stalks.

A young boy played pretend in front of the cabin, swinging a simple wooden sword and clashing with a singular fence post. The boy, wearing only a corn sack shirt, two sizes too big, danced before the post; stepping forwards on his leading foot and landing a precise hit on the hapless piece of wood that quivered from the fatal blow. Before it would fall to its enemy, the boy would let loose a triumphant battle-cry and land two more hits before jumping back to give the post a moment of respite.

The boy chortled, spinning the blade in one hand and proclaiming his victory over the post. In the middle of his grandeur speech the blade spun too fast, and flew from the boy's grasp, spinning through the air in a lazy arc and landing in the dirt behind him. The spell had been broken; the illusion was gone as the boy cursed under his breath and gathered the blade back into his hands.

In the doorway of the cabin, a male figure; tall and broad shouldered, covered in dirty brown fur, stood and watched the spectacle with a wary eye. He shook his head and scoffed.

"What are you scoffing at now, husband?" A female voice echoed from farther in the home.

"I don't understand our boy." He grumbled. "He wants to be a night, like Saint George or David, not a farmer like his father!"

"Or his father before him, and _his_ father before him?" The voice retorted. "At his age, he can decide to be whatever he wants to be." A dainty female form glided to the male's side, her fur a lighter grey, wiping her hands on an apron as she herself joined to watch the boy play.

"I was already sowing corn fields, by _myself_, at his age." He harrumphed. "Plus I'm not too keen on how or where he got this fascination with knights all of a sudden." The male met his wife's gaze, before quickly glancing away from her chastising glare. "I'm just worried about him is all."

"He is fine, dear." She calmed, resting a hand on his square shoulder. "He has an incredible imagination; let him enjoy being a child a while longer."

"I know, I know." He sighed. "I just don't want him to decide to not become a farmer and decide to take up arms for the king; it's a dangerous world out beyond our farm!"

"Oh, and it is so much better sowing fields and harvesting wheat all your life?"

"Yes, it is!" The husband whined. "There is always need for food and farms, not warriors."

The wife smiled and shook her head, tugging on her husband's arm and leaning against him. "You worry too much about our son. He will be a great farmer, like his father, it is just a phase he's going through. It will be nothing but a whisper in a couple weeks."

"I hope you're right." He sighed, wrapping an arm around her.

"I know I'm right." She replied. "Now get ready for supper, it will be ready in a few minutes."

To the prospect of food answering his growling stomach, the husband sprang to life as his wife disappeared back into the kitchen; he turned his attention to his still sword-fighting son. "Pierce!" He hollered to the boy.

Pierce stopped in his tracks, wooden blade still held at the ready, turning his small gaze towards his father. "Yes sir?" A small voice answered.

"Run to the spring and fetch a pale of water, supper will be ready and we need water to wash dishes."

"Yes Father." Pierce acknowledged. In the blink of an eye Pierce dropped the toy sword, and struggling to keep his oversized shirt on, ran towards the wooden bucket laying next to the post and scooped it up without losing momentum and began making haste for the small spring.

He danced as he followed the well-worn path to the small spring, mimicking the sounds of a swordfight as he spun swinging the bucket to and fro, using it as his shield and an imaginary sword in the other. With a full theater playing within his mind he reached the spring in no time, taking nary a second to dunk the bucket into the ice cold mountain stream and proclaim to his enemies who was strongest as he recharged his stamina with a swig from the bucket.

With the bucket filled to its brim, the illusion was lessened, but no less Pierce remained engulfed in his fantasy, pretending to carry a plump damsel in distress while fighting off a dragon with his free hand; The Fair Maiden screaming in fright with her liquid hair spilling onto the ground with every sword thrust.

As Pierce approached a crest of a hill, the pungent smell of smoke filled his small nostrils. As he reached its crest, he found the source of the smell. Tar black clouds of smoke roiled and billowed into the orange sky, its source originating from small orange flecks of fire far in the fields towards Pierce's home.

The boy gasp, his heart plunged into his stomach, as he was pulled from his daydreams of being a knight when he realized the fields that burned were his own. The Fair Maiden became a wooden bucket once more, and tumbled onto the ground.

Pierce ran as fast as his little legs could carry him, calling for his mother and father as he neared the hell on earth. With only a second of hesitation, the boy dove through the thick smoke, keeping low to the ground and relying on the worn path to carry him to his front door.

The smoke never lessened its dark haze, Pierce tripped and coughed as he called out in vain for his parents but never straying from his trail. His eyes strained, being tarnished with tears from the smoke he hadn't noticed the smoldering wooden door of his only home stop him cold in his tracks. He fell, but his determination never faltered as he jumped back onto his feet, and began wrenching at the blackened door.

The door gave way to the pulling, crumbling to ash from the fire. Pierce fell back once again, only to remain there on the ground.

Before him was the blackened, smoldering bodies of his parents; forever entwined in their final hour.

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Pierce had cleared the fields, watching from a distance with reddened tear-stained eyes as the fields he had grown up in and known his whole life finally burned out. In the middle of the charred remains was the stone foundation of his home; its wooden walls long since turned to ash and still smoldering. The remains of his parents had also faded into nothing; strong winds carried their ashes onward towards the horizon.

Pierce wished he could have gone back down into the smoke and give their bodies a proper burial, but the smoke was getting to him. Had he stayed any longer he would have ended up joining them. A part of him wished he had stayed there within the burning fields, joining his parents into the afterlife instead of living in this now unknown and unforgiving world. But something had to have caused the fire; someone had to take responsibility for this. A simple stove fire would have only taken the house, not the entire property! This had to have been someone's doing.

Pierce wiped fresh tears from his eyes with the back of his ash- ridden arm and immediately regretted the mistake as his eyes began to burn worse. He used the inside of his scorched corn sack shirt in futility. His eyes continued to burn with fresh tears, both from ash and sadness.

He stumbled down the only dirt road that lead away from his smoldering home, down into the small village his parents would travel to deliver their crops in the summer. He had nowhere else to go, no extended family that he had known about to stay with.

For the first time in his life, Pierce was alone, and had to now learn by himself how to survive and live. For now being a child was no longer an option, he had to grow up early.


End file.
